Текст книги "Heartbreaker"
Автор книги: Cole Saint Jaimes
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 8 страниц)
We didn’t actually do it in the bed. Just everywhere else. I shake my head.
“You’re a bitch,” she says. “He’s a married man. He has a family. You’re a home wrecker, d’you know that? You probably prey on married men. You’re one of those women who can’t be happy unless they’re sabotaging someone else’s happiness. I don’t even have to know you to be able to see that. Well, it’s all over. D’you hear me? It’s over. If you ever try to get in touch with my husband again…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, as though the implied threat is so bad it’s better left unsaid. “I’m just trying to eat my lunch,” I say flatly. “I’m not trying to ruin anything for you.”
Mrs. Ellen Campbell is shaking her head. “I don’t care about your lunch,” she snaps. “I don’t care about you at all. But I knew that something was going on with him. I just knew it.”
“So you were right. Does that make you feel better or worse?”
“Being able to find you and look you in the eye and tell you what a cunt you are actually does make me feel better. I’m sure my husband isn’t the first married man you’ve slept with. I bet none of the other women have had the nerve to tell you what a piece of shit you are. If you had any respect for yourself—or anyone else—you wouldn’t do this kind of thing. You obviously think you’re worthless. And you know what? You’re right. Women like you never find someone to be with long term. I feel sorry for you.”
She shoots me one last venomous glare and then turns on her heel and leaves. Most of the people in the café are looking at me. I feel strangely devoid of anything—I’m not embarrassed, or ashamed, or humiliated. In a way, I feel as though Ellen Campbell has just spoken some fundamental truth about myself that I didn’t want to see. I am a piece of shit, and I am worthless. Maybe that’s why I feel completely unaffected by what she just told me—because I know it’s true.
******
The Callahan Corporation’s located in an intimidating glass-and-steel skyscraper that literally does seem to touch the sky. When I was a teenager, I always thought the building looked pretty cool. So shiny and new, reflecting great panels of sunlight over the city.
Now, I think it’s the most obvious phallic object ever constructed by the hands of man. Hey, Chicago, check it out. My name’s Aidan Callahan and I have the biggest dick in this entire state. Don’t stare at it too long or it’ll take your damn eye out.
I’ve never actually had to step inside the place until now. For some reason, I feel nervous. I’ve played this out down to the most minute details, but now that it’s actually happening it suddenly feels surreal. What if it doesn’t go as planned? What if he somehow knows exactly what I’m up to? I wouldn’t rule out that possibility. It’s very likely I could walk in there and he’ll tell me the only reason he agreed to meet so readily is because he knows what I’m going to say and he wants to confront me.
He’s a powerful man, it’s true. I’m sure he has many friends in high places. Who knows what he’d do if he thought his company is in jeopardy. Is it possible that I’m putting myself in some sort of danger?
A tiny voice in my head keeps telling me that I should just turn around, I should forget about all this. Perhaps a part of me has heard what Julia’s been saying over the years. A part that does want to forgive, to move on. I know that’s not true, though. I’m just not capable of that.
I step into the elevator with a throng of people. On the outside it might appear as though I know exactly what I’m doing, but my palms have started to sweat, my heart rate racing out of my chest. The elevator stops at the tenth floor and people get out. I could get out with them—get out, hop on the next elevator going down and skip out of here. I’m beginning to feel like I’m way out of my league.
But then an image of my brother flashes through my mind. My brother who is no longer here, my brother who I will never see again. He sacrificed everything for me. I can do this for him.
I take a deep breath.
I can do this.
I can do this.
ELEVEN
AIDAN
I’m sitting at my desk when my receptionist’s voice comes over the speakerphone and tells me Essie Floyd is here to see me. “Did she have an appointment? I didn’t see her on the calendar,” she asks.
“No. She didn’t need one. Send her in.”
I stand up and adjust my collar. I’ve spent all morning trying to figure out what Essie’s going to say when she gets here, and now the time has finally arrived. I can’t say I’ve had much success in guessing what’s going to come of this talk. Everything seems possible and at the same time, totally implausible.
My office door opens, and there she is.
She looks older than the last photograph I saw of her. Or maybe it’s that in the photograph she was smiling, and right now she isn’t. She’s frowning. Almost grimacing. Either way she doesn’t look pleased. Like every other night this month, I dreamed about her last night, and her demeanor had been very different then. She’d been breathless, words slipping out of her mouth in endless whispers as I fucked her. I’d taken a paddle to the buttocks, gently laying the leather against her bare, naked skin. She’s writhed around in ecstasy as I’d played with her, running my fingers over the slick, wet pussy, before carefully sliding my index finger inside her asshole. She’d gasped, fingernails digging into my thighs as I’d toyed with her, teasing her, using my other hand to work her clit. When she came in the dream, she was grinding her pubic bone into my hand, panting, rocking wilding against me, and the very act of witnessing her climax had made me come too. I’d woken unsatisfied, though, my dick still hard, my sheets clean. I hadn’t jerked off in the shower. I’d left my ridiculously hard cock well alone. I knew I was meeting her. I wanted to be hard for her all day. My erection had vanished before I even left the apartment, but still… It feels slightly criminal knowing that I wanted her so badly only a matter of a few hours ago. I’m all too aware of how fucked up it is that I’m thinking about fingering her ass the first time we meet in person.
“Essie.” I walk over to her, hand extended. “Aidan Callahan.”
Her face remains impassive. She takes my hand and shakes it quickly. “Nice to meet you,” she says.
Since taking over the company, women have treated me differently. Most are demure, hiding shy giggles behind their hands, looking me in the eye for only the briefest of seconds. A handful—the models, the actresses—are aggressive and unapologetic in their advances. But right away I can tell Essie is different. There’s a hard look in her eye, and her mouth is set in a thin line that doesn’t waver when I smile at her. I expect her to say I know who you are, or I know you’ve been watching me. Maybe even, I know what you’ve been dreaming about. Something, at least, to acknowledge the past history we share. However, she says nothing. And I wonder: is it possible she has no idea who I am? That thought never even crossed my mind. She must, right? She must know about our shared past. Unless…unless she didn’t see the articles or the countless pieces in the evening news. Maybe all she was really aware of at the time was that her brother was dead and it didn’t matter to her who did it. She may not know who I am. This seems even more likely when she slaps a folder down on my desk.
“Here are the forms,” she says.
“Oh. Of course.” I sign them quickly, my chest tightening when I notice Arturo Mendel’s chicken scratch in the margins of the papers. She stuffs the papers back into the file. We both stand there, awkwardness filling the space between us. I’ve often thought what I might say if we were ever standing in front of each other, the way we are now. In my mind, we’ve had some very in-depth conversations. Everything from the serious and heartfelt to the more lighthearted and humorous. I’ve apologized to her for what my brother did. I’ve asked her to tell me about her own brother. In all these conversations, things flowed easily. There was never a moment of discomfort. The reality of our first meeting is stark in contrast. It’s about as uncomfortable as meetings can get.
But then Essie does something strange: she reaches out and touches my arm. “Thank you,” she says. I am sharply aware of the feel of her touch on my arm, the warmth of her skin radiating into my own. She takes a step closer, a small smile starting to form at the corners of her mouth.
“You’re welcome,” I say. “Is…” I let my voice trail off. What had I been expecting? I don’t know. Something out of the ordinary, that’s for damn sure. I clear my throat. “Is there anything else?”
Her mouth begins to form the shape of a no but then she stops. “Actually,” she says. “There is one more thing. I was…I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner some time.” She says the last part in a jumble, words all rushed together.
It’s not very often I am rendered speechless in my own office, but right now I’m pretty close. At first, I think that I’ve misheard her, but she’s starting to blush. She rips her gaze from mine and looks down at her feet. She’s wearing black pumps, and her ankles are slim and lovely.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I realize that’s probably way out of line, considering I’m here on…business. It probably seems totally out of the blue. But…that’s really why I emailed you to begin with. I…I was hoping that we could…go out and get dinner.” The color continues to rise on her cheeks. She finally looks up and meets my eye. She really is beautiful. It’s something more than that, though, but I can’t put my finger on it just yet. I mean, I see beautiful women all the time. So much so that I don’t really even notice them anymore. Perhaps it’s their attitudes. They’re entitled, or arrogant, or want to play silly mind games. It doesn’t matter how fucking hot you are; if you do shit like that, we’re not going to connect.
But it’s almost like there’s something in her eyes that I recognize, something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s more than her simply looking like the first girl I ever loved.
“Yes,” I say. “We can do that. Did you have somewhere in mind?”
She stares at me like I’ve just slapped her across the face. With wide, unblinking beautiful brown eyes, she studies my face, her glossed lips slowly parting. “I—”
“If not, I know a place or two,” I continue. I don’t know what’s occurring between us right now, but it feels like I’ve just called her bluff.
“Anywhere you choose is fine,” she says, exhaling. Her breath is sweet and smells like mint. I can just imagine what she would taste like if I kissed her right now. I shouldn’t be thinking about fucking kissing her right now. Jesus. What the hell? On top of what I was thinking when she walked into the room? I clench my left hand into a fist inside the pocket of my pants.
“When would you like to go out?”
She finally blinks. “Friday night?”
I have a vague recollection of something I’m supposed to do Friday night, but fuck it. It’ll have to wait. “Why don’t you leave your phone number,” I say. “And I’ll call you when I’m on my way over.”
“Or…why don’t I just meet you somewhere? You pick,” she says.
She’s putting me on the spot. I say the first restaurant that pops into mind. “Electra, then.” It’s a fancy nouvelle cuisine place. The food looks like a work of art instead of an edible meal. I went there with a client a few months ago and spent a ridiculous amount of money on food that was pretty fucking terrible.
“Electra? Sure. That sounds fine. Why don’t I meet you there at seven?”
“Sure. I’ll take care of the reservation.”
“I heard their waiting list’s over a month long.”
“They’ll probably be able to accommodate us.” I’ll make damn sure of it.
“Thank you, Mr. Callahan,” she says. She picks up the folder and leaves.
I’m not sure how long I stand there for, replaying the scenario in my head, over and over again. Did that just really happen? And, with all the images of ass-play running through my head, did I manage to talk to her without sporting a massive hard-on?
Yeah.
Yes, I most certainly did.
TWELVE
ESSIE
Sometimes an idea just comes to you without you even realizing it. I hadn’t planned on asking Aidan to dinner. I planned on asking him to meet me for coffee, at which point I was going to reveal the paperwork I’ve collected, documenting the highly suspect payments Alex made to several offshore accounts—tens of millions of dollars in transfers. I was going to show him this and then tell him I’d be reporting my findings to the relevant authorities and he could expect his company to be seized, investigated, and, eventually, dissolved.
There are hotlines I could call, authorities I could alert, gossip magazines that would salivate at the chance to publish a scandalous expose involving one of the world’s most eligible bachelors, after all. The avenues for his company’s downfall—for his downfall—were all right in front of me.
But then something changed when I walked into his office. There he was, standing in front of me, looking as handsome and intrigued as any man could, adjusting his collar, smiling warmly at me, and it infuriated me. What right does he have to look so goddamn happy and healthy, anyway? What right does he have to look so goddamn sexy? My brother is dead, and he’s allowed to saunter around the city, smiling at women like that, making them feel things they don’t want to feel? It’s just not right.
And so the tiny voice in the back of my head that had been telling me to run in the elevator started whispering new suggestions in my ear.
Break his fucking heart.
I could do it. I know I could. I knew I could the second he looked at me. Sometimes a man will look at you a certain way and you just know he wants to fuck you. I’m seldom wrong about gauging a man’s intentions towards me. And when I walked into his office, Aidan Callahan was giving me the kind of look normally reserved for someone you’ve already been frighteningly intimate with.
It felt wrong. It felt horrifying. Mostly because of the way my body reacted to that kind of attention from such an incredibly beautiful man. For a microsecond, one minute fraction of a heartbeat, my mind went somewhere it shouldn’t have. I imagined what it would be like to kiss him. I could see him thinking it, too. He glanced at my mouth, and my whole body lit up. I could barely breathe.
Of course he’d expect me to throw myself at him; I’m sure he thinks he can have any woman he wants.
But not me.
He may think he can have me. I may try and convince him that’s the case.
No fucking way.
I’m not going to let that happen.
******
For our dinner date, I decide to wear a low cut, tight-fitting black dress. I rummage through my lingerie before settling on a red lace bra and a pair of matching French lace panties. I don’t wear lingerie every day, but every once in a while it can be a good confidence booster.
I never wear underwear I’ve worn to sleep with a man in again. The red lace I slide over my skin will be going in the trash tomorrow morning, no doubt. Shame, because it’s one of my favorite sets. My little ruse with Aidan is worth it, though.
I have a somewhat complicated relationship with sex and that’s putting it mildly. I’ve never actually been with someone I love. I’ve been quite cut throat about my sexual partners, in fact. If a guy’s hot and my self-esteem is through the floor, I’ll hook up with a potential suitor and kick him out the next morning, not caring if I ever see him again.
I’m always careful. I’m never drunk enough or high enough or sad enough to screw a guy without protection. And yes, I screw them. I’m not a lay-back-and-take-it girl. I know what I want and I go after it when I’m with a guy.
See, if you’re a woman, you can usually expect to command less power than a man. I’ve witnessed that endlessly at work, sure enough. For example, Alicia gets paid seventeen thousand dollars less than Andrew Richter, another junior associate at Mendel, Goldstein & Hofstadter, and they do the same fucking job. They went to equally excellent Ivy League colleges, both achieved equally as well, and each have the same amount of on-the-job experience. And yet Andrew, who also happens to be a grade-A motherfucking sleaze ball, breaks six figures and Alicia doesn’t. Even gets a bigger bonus.
So yeah, I can be dominant in bed, and guys aren’t used to it. Sometimes they don’t like it, don’t like handing over the power. Because sex is power. And if you’re a woman, and you want power, using sex can be one of the best ways to get it. It’s so cliché. I’m probably setting the women’s rights movement back decades somehow, but hell…I can barely fight my own personal battles, let alone the battles of an entire gender.
At the height of climax, a man is vulnerable. You can ask him for anything and he’d say yes. You can arouse him to a certain point and then not let him climax and he’ll be begging for you to keep going.
I remember the years Vaughn and I were in and out of shelters. I remember being terrified to go to sleep at night, even when Vaughn was right next to me, because I didn’t want to leave myself open to any kind of unwanted attention. There were all sorts of people at the shelter. Most were kind, down on their luck, trying to overcome the insurmountable things that life had thrown at them, but there were some who preyed on people, who were in such pain that they wanted to make everyone else around them hurt like they did. One night—I must’ve been fifteen, maybe sixteen—Vaughn had to pull a double shift at the convenience store he was working at, so I went to bed at the shelter by myself. It must have been much later when I awoke, because almost everyone else was asleep. I felt someone next to me, and at first I thought it was Vaughn until I swam up through the levels of consciousness and realized that whoever was next to me had their hand underneath my shirt. The hand hadn’t reached my breasts yet; it was fumbling near my stomach but inching higher and higher. I froze in place. I couldn’t move. It was like one of those awful dreams where you’re fully conscious but your limbs don’t work, your voice doesn’t work. All you can do is feel every single thing that is happening to you, and do nothing about it. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, certain that it would stop. The hand inched higher and cupped my breast. The smell of alcohol was heavy around me, even though no one who stayed at the shelter was supposed to drink. The hand moved from one breast to the next, and still, I couldn’t move. A thousand thoughts ran through my mind—I could’ve screamed, I could’ve jumped up, I could’ve reached out and slapped whoever was touching me—but I did none of those things. It only lasted maybe another minute—the hand stopped suddenly, was gone, and I was alone, lying in my bed again.
The next time it happened, I opened my eyes a slit. It was a boy, probably only a few years older than me, twenty at the most. It wasn’t the lecherous old man that I’d imagined. It was a boy, like any boy I might pass on the street or go to school with. His hand was up my shirt again, but this time, I reacted.
I spun around and grabbed his balls in my hand through his grubby shorts. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes as they locked onto mine: surprise, quickly developing into overwhelming lust. He actually thought I was going to jerk him off for a second, I’m sure of it. He let out a stuttering sigh and pressed his hips forward, grinding his erection against my arm, and that was when I snapped. I started squeezing, slowly at first. Then, as I increased the pressure, I began digging my nails in. At first he enjoyed it. He groaned. His hand was still up my shirt, and he began fumbling for my breast again.
The feeling of his hands on my skin made me want to throw up. I squeezed harder. And harder. And harder. Eventually, the motherfucker got the idea that I was less pleased about being groped in my sleep than he’d first thought.
He started to squirm, trying to get away, but I held on as tightly as I could, pressing my nails into the soft, delicate skin, until my hand had formed a fist around one of his balls and it felt like it was going to pop. I had him screaming by the end. He had to punch me in the side of the head to make me let go.
By the time Vaughn got back from his shift, both of our belongings were packed up and I was sitting on the shelter steps with the center manager, who told my brother I’d assaulted another resident during the night and I was lucky the young man in question didn’t want to press charges.
I didn’t tell the center manager why I’d nearly castrated the guy who’d climbed into bed with me. Admitting that I’d been violated like that somehow seemed like an admission of weakness. Vaughn never questioned me about it. He must have been able to tell from the look on my face that there was more to the story. That the guy must have gotten what was coming to him.
Vaughn didn’t work nightshifts after that, though. I was never alone overnight in another shelter by myself again. And I’ve never since let a man touch me without my permission.
I could give a fuck about a guy’s sexual gratification. I’ve gotten down on my knees and given more than one blow job and ended it before ejaculation; I’ve climbed off a guy’s lap once I’ve come, irrespective of whether or not he has. You’d think this would incense most men, fill them with a sort of rage, make them swear they never wanted to see me again for as long as they lived, but for some reason, the opposite happens. It makes me mysterious, enigmatic, perhaps, or tantalizingly frustrating. Or perhaps someone they just wanted to conquer. Except they never can, because I won’t let them. Even during my most intense orgasm, I never lose myself the way a man does. I’m always fully aware, so I can maintain the correct dynamic between me and my bedfellow. I own them. They never own me.
I’m planning on doing the exact same thing with Aidan. I’m experienced enough by now to know that I’ll be able to pull it off, and what could be more satisfying than ruining a man’s business, taking the roof from over his head, the clothes from his back?
Crushing his spirit, of course.
I know just how good that is going to feel.
